OTHER  BOOKS  BY 

THE  SAME 

AUTHOR 

A  Man  of  Two  Countries. 
Chaperoning  Adrienne  Through  the 

Yellowstone. 
Stories  of  Montana. 
Songs  o'  the  Sound. 
Songs  o'  the  Olympics. 
Lemon  Juice  (Col.). 
Redcoat  and  Redskin  (in  press). 


WILT  THOU  NOT  SING? 

A  BOOK  OF  VERSES 


BY 
ALICE  HARRIMAN 


NEW  YORK 
THE  ALICE  HARRIMAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1912 
BY  ALICE  HARRIMAN 


THESE  PAGES  ARE  INSCRIBED 

TO  THE  MEN 
WHO  HAVE  TAUGHT  ME 


A  WORD 

The  poetry  of  Alice  Harriman  reflects  the  heart  of  things 
in  our  great  West.  She  writes  verses  that  have  all  the 
largeness,  the  simplicity,  the  strength  of  the  Nature  whose 
moods  she  reflects.  Her  themes  are  never  subtle,  complex. 
They  lack  what  is  called  in  the  jargon  of  this  subject  "  uni- 
versality." One  must  be  un jaded  and  a  youth  in  spirit  to 
appreciate  such  lines. 

It  is  not  easy  for  any  poet  in  this  sardonic  and  sophisti- 
cated age  to  feel  emotions  sincerely,  with  no  histrionic  self- 
consciousnessi.  It  is  because  she  has  retained  the  child- 
likeness  of  inspiration  that  Alice  Harriman  can  give  us 
verses  like  a  draught  from  the  cup  of  the  Nature  she  knows 
so  intimately.  Hers  is  a  voice  from  the  heart  of  that  tre- 
mendous West  of  which  we  have  all  heard,  for  which  we  all 
long.  We  are  a  breed  that  flocks  to  cities,  knowing  little 
or  nothing  of  the  high  mountains,  the  far  horizons.  Mrs. 
Harriman  brings  us  the  soul  of  these  things.  She  dif- 
fuses it. 

One  is  tempted  to  compare  her  with  the  poets  of  the 
Lake  school.  They  drew  from  the  sweet  and  tender 
Nature  of  which  they  were  lovers.  They  had  more  art, 
more  polish.  But  they  had  not  and  they  knew  not  —  I 
am  speaking  of  the  school,  and  not  of  any  one  poet  —  the 
vastness  of  Nature  in  our  West,  the  largeness  of  vision  which 
was  our  Whitman's.  They  were  not  easily  appreciated ;  but 
they  arrived.  And  the  work  of  Mrs.  Harriman,  the  Amer- 


A  WORD 

ican,  a  representative  one  in  the  interpretation  of  Nature 
here,  will  make  its  way. 

There  are  lines  here  and  there  in  the  verses  which  sound 
other  depths.  Yet  those  too  are  inspired  by  the  same 
moods.  We  see  into  a  soul  to  which  Nature  has  spoken 
solemnly  and  very  beautifully.  But  the  "  note "  is  dis- 
tinctly American  always.  Possibly  some  would  deem  it 
provincial.  But  it  is  that  with  all  the  sublime  provincial- 
ism of  Homer. 

ALEXANDER  HARVEY 


THE     POEM     YOU     WANT     TO     FIND     IS     ON     PAGE 

WILT   THOU   NOT  SING? 1 

THE  SIWASH 2 

THE  PRAIRIES 3 

A  VAGABOKD 4 

IN  FRIENDSHIP'S  GUISE 6 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDLESS 7 

IN  THE  Hop  FIELDS 9 

THE   TIMBER  CRUISER 10 

AN  ALASKA  WIDOW 11 

THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  LIGHT 12 

MT.  BAKER 13 

MOTHER  o'  MINE 14 

THE  DAY'S  WORK 15 

CRADLE   SONG 16 

TOTEM  POLES 17 

FROM  AN   INDIAN  BATTLEFIELD 18 

A  LETTER  FROM   ALASKA 20 

KEATS 21 

ENDYMION ....  22 

MY    MOTHER'S    LETTERS 23 

THE   VILLAGE   FUNERAL 24 

THE  REUNION 25 

SEATTLE 26 

IN  COUNTRY  CALM 27 


PAGE 

LlNCOLK 28 

MELPOMENE 30 

I'M  Nor  ALONE 31 

THE    WATERFRONT 32 

THE  GOD  OF  LOVE 34 

IMMORTELLES 35 

DREAMS  o'  THE   PAST 36 

WHEEL,  GRAY  GULL 38 

VTACOMA 39 

/     PROFANITY 40 

IN  OBERAMMERGAU 42 

OTTH  BATTLESHIPS 44 

SILENCE 45 

BALLADE  TO  A  POET 46 

REGRADINO 48 

GROUPS  OF  SONGS 49 

LONGINQ 50 

DESPAIR 51 

ECSTASY 52 

WAITING 53 

Our  ON  THE  DREAMLAND  SEA 54 

SONGS  o'  THE  WEST 56 

THE  GAME 58 

A  WEE,  WILD  FLOWER 59 

THE  WINEPRESS 60 

ALASKA 61 

THE  MOUNTAIN  OF  THE  SOUND 62 

ABANDONED  CLAIMS 63 

SAILING  BY 64 

WHEN   ROBINS   COME 65 

ALASKAN'S  DREAM 66 

BELOW   THE   DEAD   LINE 67 

COUNTRY  ROADS 68 


PAGE 

THE   TEMPEST 69 

CHRISTMAS  ON  THE  SOUND 70 

His  LAST  CIGAR 71 

THE  BASHFUL  COON 72 

THE  FAR  WEST  AND  NEW  YORK 74 

IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  VATICAN 76 

FOR  A  GUEST   BOOK 79 

UNDAUNTED 80 

DESIRE        82 

GEMINI 83 

DREAMING  OF  You 84 

BELLS  OF  HOPE 85 

THE  NIGHTINGALE 86 

A   VIKING  OF  THE  PRAIRIES 87 

OLD  HOME  WEEK 88 

GOD'S  MYSTERY 90 

THE  NYMPH  OF  GOLDSTHEAM .     .  91 

CALIFORNIA  POPPIES 92 

THE  STREET  WALKER    .                      ...           .           ...  93 


w 


WILT  THOU  NOT  SING? 

ILT  thou  not  sing,  my  Muse,  sing  soft  to  me, 
Some  haunting  song  of  love  in  minor  key? 
In  subtler  strain  than   hath   been  heretofore 
Sung  through  the  ages  of  the  poet's  lore 
Of  charmed  nights  and  prisoned  hearts  set  free. 


Sing  the  soul's  song  as  sings  the  sun-drawn  bee; 
Sing  as  the  dryad  in  the  sheathed  tree; 

Sing  as  the  ocean  to  the  list'ning  shore  — 
Wilt  thou   not   sing? 


Then  will  my  heart  uplift  as  doth  the  sea 
When  Luna  lures  it  with  her  mystery: 

To  know  thou   canst,  like   skylark,   swiftly   soar 

And  shower  thy  music  in  divine  outpour  — 
O  Muse  of  mine,  give  me  this  ecstacy ! 

Wilt  thou  not  sing? 


THE  SIWASH 

STOLID  he  sits,  the  Siwash  of  the  Sound, 
Hard  by  the  corner  of  the  city's  street 
And  heeds  not  any  halt  of  hurrying  feet 
Before  his  outspread  mats  and  baskets  browned 
And  crude  (such  curious,  patterned  weaves  abound 
They  make  his  tribal  art  unique,  complete)  ; 
And  if  you  turn  to  go,  no  tones  entreat, 
And  if  you  buy,  he  sells  in  calm  profound. 


The  hustling  white  men  look  with  Dullest  scorn 
Upon  the  unkempt  wanderer,  silent,  grave; 
And  few  there  are  who  pause  to  meditate 
Or  pity  give  the  Indians  who  were  born 

To    learn    their    day    is    past.     Why    speak?     Why 

slave  ?  — 
The  Siwash  struggles  not  against  his  fate! 


THE  PRAIRIES 


Sight 

THE  great  high  plains  they  weary  me, 
They  eerie  be,  they  dreary  be. 
The   distances  seem   boundless,   far 
From  verge  to  verge  as  star  from  star. 
The  silences  weight  me  with   fright 
(O  lonely  day!  more  lonely  night!); 
The  winds  that  sweep  the  grassy  sea 
Sound  dismal  to  the  last  degree: 
I  gaze  and  find  —  vacuity! 


Insight 

The  great  high  plains  are  dear  to  me, 
Sincere  to  me,  are  near  to  me. 
The  solitudes  hold  peace  intense, 
A  thousand  flow'rs  breathe  sweet  incense. 
The  silences  sing  Nature's  rune, 
The  morning  stars  pulse  into  noon. 
The  sky-rimmed  range  soothes  world-sick  me, 
I  thank  my  God  I've  lived  to  see 
Intensity,  Immensity! 


A  VAGABOND 

THE  sunset  fires  burn  eerily, 
Behind  the  long  Olympic  Range; 
And  while  the  busy  street  below 
Is  filled  with  crowds  that  come  and  go, 
A  faery  sail  wafts  me  to  sea, — 

To  those  far  summits,  white  and  strange. 


The  sunset  flushes  ocean  wide, 

Beyond  the  plumed  Olympian  heights 
(How  far  away  the  restless  street, 
Where  many  linger  in  defeat!). 
With  high  ideals  as  pilot,  guide, 

Truth  beckons  me,  and  Love  invites. 


The  sunset  tarries,  waits  for  me, — 
Waits  till  I  reach  the  utmost  crest 
(How  far  away  the  sleeping  town 
Where  once  I  walked  with  head  bowed  down!). 
In  this  ethereal  air  I'm  free, 

Nor  care  for  aught  that  brings  unrest. 


On !     Far  beyond  the  curve  of  Earth, 
Enwrapped  in  palest  daffodil, 

My  crescent  craft  makes  swift  advance 
Through  Milky  Way  of  Pure  Romance. 
No  thing  of  dingy  street  has  worth, 
When  I  can  Song  from  stars  distil. 

4 


A  VAGABOND 

Too  soon  the  East  grows  vaguely  wan 
And  I  return  —  a  vagabond. 
Who,  of  the  early  passers-by, 
Would  dream  from  magic  casement  I 
Each  might  roam,  like  Endymion, 
The  high  Olympics  —  and  beyond? 


I 


IN  FRIENDSHIP'S  GUISE 

THOUGHT    them     friends,     when,     journeying    on 

life's  way 
I  fell  among  them  in  a  crowded  place 
Nor  hoped  to  see  a  kindly,  smiling  face 
Among  the  throng  that  passed  by  night  and  day. 
Yet  while  I  stood,  aloof,  forlorn,  a  gay 

Salute  was  given.     Another,  with  much  grace 
Begged  that  I  quaff  from  friendship's  golden  vase 
The  wine  of  life  —  and  each  one  bade  me  stay. 

And  now  bereft  am  I !     Not  one,  but  all 

Connived  to  rob  —  conspired  in   friendship's  guise. 

So  deftly  did  each  comrade  play  his  part 

I  could  not  one,  with  surety,  'fore  a  justice  haul 

And  say:  "This  is  the  one!"  What  was  their  prize? 

They  stole  —  these  friendly  ones  —  they  stole  my  heart ! 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDLESS 

"  Would  that  I  had  a  son," 

My  lonely  heart  cries  out: 
"  Would  that  I  had  a  son!  " 

I  DARE  not,  dare  not  think  of  the  supreme  content 
Which    would    have    flooded    me    (if    I    had    been    so 

blessed), 

While  close  he  lay  beneath  my  heart,  as  yet  unborn, 
And  I,  with  eager  hopes  and  high,  dreamed  on,  and  on. 

Almost  I  now  can  see  his  tiny  hands  clutching 
My  full,  white  breast  and  feel  my  life  flow  into  his 
As  I,  with  eyes  o'erful,  gaze  down  at  his  smiling 
At  me  in  baby  innocence. 

A  son!     A  son! 

Grown  tall,  surpassing  fair  (Lord,  why  was  I  denied?); 
With  firm,  yet  tender  mouth  and  eyes  like  April's  dawns; 
With  softest,  thickest  hair  waving  away  from  — 

Yes, 
A  poet's  thoughtful  brow. 

This  is  my  yearning  cry! 

A  son  who  would  fulfill  my  every  hope,  my  dreams; 
Who,  in  youth's  virile  strength,  would  his  conception  give 
To  all  he  drew  from  me. 

And  I  would  soothe  the  pain 

That  comes  to  those  born  when  Fate's  shuttle  flies: 
When  Genius'  pangs  scourged  deep  I'd  comfort  him;  ca- 
ress, 

Console,  uplift,  inspire;  and  kiss  the  hurt  away 
From  his  bruised  heart  until  he'd  lie,  with  grief  assuaged, 

7 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDLESS 

As  when,  a  little  child,  he  ran  unto  my  arms. 

Then  would  he  rise,  new-born,  and  snatch  from  heavens' 

high  stars 

Their  whitest,  purest  fire  and  set  the  world  aflame  — 
This  son  of  mine! 

"  Would  that  I  had  a  son" 

My  lonely  heart  cries  out: 
"  Would  that  I  had  a  son!  " 


IN  THE  HOP  FIELDS 

golden,  sickle  moon  slips  down  the  west, 
But  I,  of  all  the  pickers,  find  no  rest 
While  blossomed,  feath'ry  sprays  of  hops  entwine 
And  wave  from   fragrant-bannered,  trellised  vine. 

Down  aisles  o'  pale  green 

Look  I,  through  leaf-screen: 
iWatch  I,  obedient  to  the  night's  behest. 

A   wanderer  I!     Why   'gainst  the  world  enveigh? 
(Oh,   drowsy-odored   night,   regrets    allay!) 
Why  should  aught  else  but  husks  to  me  be  thrown? 
A  man  shall  reap  what  he,  himself,  has   sown  — 

Down  aisles  o'  pale  green 

Faint  flush  o'  rose  seen 
Foretells,  with  paling  stars,  the  coming  day. 


F 


THE  TIMBER  CRUISER 

AR  from  the  haunts  of  men  I  take  my  way 

With  shouldered  pack,  and  trusty  axe  in  hand. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Forest  gives  command 
To  one  pave-sick,  and  gladly   I  obey. 
A  thousand  breezes,   aromatic,   stray 

Where  cedars,  pines  and  hemlocks,  green-crowned, 
stand : 

And  memories  stir  as  hoary  trees   are  scanned, 
For  spirit  winds  my  psychic  senses  sway. 

Within  these  darkling  depths  I  hear  a  call 

And   Commerce   fades,   for   faintly   down  the   wind 

A  voice  assails  my  ear  as  long  ago. 
Once  more  a  weeping  Ariel,  tree-enthralled, 

Begs   for  release,   by  hoop-bent  witch  confined  — 
Not  Timber  Cruiser  Ij  but  Prospero! 


10 


AN  ALASKA  WIDOW 

44  T     OVE:  can  you  feel  how  ceaselessly  my  heart 

1  -^      Cries  out  for  you  as  yours  for  me,  I  know, — 

I,  safe  at  home;  you,  in  Alaska's  snow? 
At  every  shrill-voiced  news-boy's  cry  I  start 
Fearing  —  I    know    not   what !     And    closed    eyes 

smart 

With  tears  unshed.     The  wealth  you  would  be- 
stow 

I  pay  for,  dearest,  in  the  hours  slow 
Which  I  endure  while  we  are  far  apart." 

A  woman's  cry,  however  much  of  truth 

She   hides   from  those  too  prone  to   gibes   and 

sneers. 
The  North,  like   Shylock,  for  each  ounce  of 

gold 
Demands  from  debtors  toll  of  strength  and  youth; 

Then,  not  content,  nor  yet  to  be  cajoled 
Exacts  as  usury  a  woman's  tears! 


11 


T 


THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  LIGHT 

REMBLING  and  worn  the  keeper  of  the  Light 
Stands  on  the  steps,  shading  with  palsied  hand 
His  sunken  eyes ;  gazing  past  wide,  wet  sand 

For  the  New  Keeper,  coming  at  midnight. 

His  life  he  spent  within  this  tower  slight 

Between  two  oceans  which  no  eye  has  scanned; 
And  for  those  souls  who  drifted  toward  this  land 

He  kept  the  lamps  well  trimmed  and  burning  bright. 


Lo !     On  a  tossing  boat  the  beacon  gleams, 
And  soon  a  gallant  youth  springs  on  the  beach 
Bearing  a  gift  —  a  wreath  of  Asphodel : 

He  might  the  man's  son  be,  so  like  he  seems. 
"All  hail!"  the  Keeper  cries.     "This  I  beseech: 

Guard  well  the  Light,  for  I  must  go.     Farewell ! " 


N 


MT.  BAKER 

EAR  to  a  mountain  top  I  stood, 
Ambition  urging  on,  all  else  forgot, 
To  win  applause  for  daring  and  for  strength. 
I'd  passed  great  jagged  rocks,  and  danger  points 
Of  deep  crevasse  or  snowslides  swift  as  death; 
While  sleet  and  storm  raged  o'er,  with  icy  blast. 
The  summit  gained,  an  awful  knowledge  grew 
Of  jostling  throngs  below,  content  with  ease, 
Who  mocked,  or  jeered,  or  thought  of  me  no  more 
O,  dread  and  bleak  the  height, 
Alone,  Alone! 


But  in  the  world  where  folly  rules  the  hour, 
Or  creed  or  crime  binds  fast  the  inert  ones; 
Where  clutching  hands  hold  fast  to  bramble  briars, 
Or  gibes  and  taunts  sting  keen  as  driving  hail, — 
The  soul  that  strives,  like  toiling  mountaineer 
To  rise  above  Life's  mediocrity, 
Stands,  breathless,  strong,  his  hard-won  victory 
Blazing  the  way  for  others  who  aspire. 
What  if  he  live  or  die?     His  work  remains, 
And  as  his  soul  goes  on  to  other  heights 
He's  not  alone! 


M 


MOTHER  O'  MINE 

OTHER  o*  Mine:     Let  close  thine  arms  enfold 
On  my  birthnight !     Sayst  thou  I  was  foretold 
By  seer  and  star?     A  wondrous  mystery 
The  Wise  Men  thought  to  solve  on  finding  me, 
As,  bearing  gifts,  they  came  o'er  hill  and  wold. 


They  called  me  Prince  of  Peace  —  O,  mother,  see ! 
The  moonlight  falls  athwart  the  quiet  lea 
In  sinister  shadow  .   .   .   Thy  very  lips  are  cold  — 

Mother  o'  Mine! 


Now  on  the  Mount  of  Olives,  gray  and  old, 
Lies  that  fell  shadow,  gaunt  and  bold. 

O,  hold  me  close  as  I  sit  on  thy  knee; 

I  fear  that  outline  of  the  wind-tossed  tree, — 
That  uncut  tree  I'll  bear  to  Calvary  — 

Mother  o'  Mine! 


THE  DAY'S  WORK 

HUNGRY,  the  whelps  whine  by  my  mate  and  tease: 
For  food  I  go!     With  stealthy  step  explore 
This  canyon  with  its  torrent's  roar; 

Crouch,  creep,  and  spring  (a  scent  comes  on  the  breeze !) ; 
Tear,  kill  and  drag;  craunch,  blood-stained,  at  my  ease, 
Mine  own  around  me,  gnawing  on  the  floor 
Of  our  retreat  'til  we  can  eat  no  more  — 
Then  watchful  peace  beneath  the  wind-swept  trees. 


The  Day's  Work  lies  behind  me!     Haste,  my  feet, 
To  the  dear  ones  who  on  my  strength  rely, 

From  roaring  canyon  of  the  city's  street 

Where  men  rend  men  for  what  each  man  would  gain. 

No  beast  of  prey  has  conscience!     Would  that  I 
Could  joy  in  victory  —  and  forget  the  slain! 


G' 


CRADLE  SONG 

O  TO  sleep,  my  darling ! 

Go  to  sleep,  my  darling! 
The  breeze  is  thy  father,  the  white  wave  thy  mother, 

And  thou  art  the  one  that  believes  them. 
Now  —  the  night  breeze  is  swinging,  a-swinging,  a-swinging, 
Now  —  the  night  breeze  is  swinging,  a-swinging,  a-swinging, 

Go  —  go  to  sleep. 

O !     The  white  wave  confesses  the  breeze's  caresses, 
And  thou  art  the  one  that  beholds  them. 

Go  to  sleep,  my  darling! 

Go  to  sleep,  my  darling! 
The  starlight's  thy  father,  the  rose  is  thy  mother, 

And  thou  art  the  one  that  believes  them. 
Now  —  the  rosebush  is  swinging,  a-swinging,  a-swinging, 
Now  —  the  rosebush  is  swinging,  a-swinging,  a-swinging, 

Go  —  go  to  sleep. 

O!     The  rosebush  confesses  she  longs  for  caresses, 
And  thou  art  the  one  that  receives  them. 

Go  to  sleep,  my  darling ! 

Go  to  sleep,  my  darling! 
My  Dear  One's  thy  father,  I'm  thy  happy  mother, 

And  thou  art  the  star  to  guide  them. 
Slow  —  thy  cradle  is  swinging,  a-swinging,  a-swinging, 
S-l-o-w  —  thy  cradle  is  swinging,  a-swinging,  a-swinging, 

Go  —  g-o  —  to  —  s-1-e-e-p. 

O!     Here  cometh  thy  father,  he  loveth  thy  mother, 
And  thou  art  asleep  beside  them! 


16 


T 


TOTEM  POLES 

HLINGITS'  queer  Totem  Poles,  ugly,  uncouth 
Represent  what  they  were  told  in  their  youth 
Of  tribal   history  —  fiction   and   fact 
They  accept  fully;  nor  add  nor  subtract. 


Why  should  we  ridicule,  think  very  droll 
Indian  legends  and  carved  totem  pole, 
When  we,  in  blindness,  are  equally  odd 
In  misconceptions  of  life  and  of  God? 


17 


FROM  AN  INDIAN  BATTLEFIELD 

THOU  dainty  rose,  so  sweet,  with  tender  bud, 
Where  thou  wast  plucked,  hath  been  the  scene  of  blood. 


In  brave  array  thy  mates  deck  all  the  land 
Where,  long  ago,  roamed  many  an  Indian  band. 

The  wild,  free  life  that  once  the  Red  Man  knew, 
Was  simple  as  thine  own,  'neath  sun  and  dew. 

Careless  and  free,  no  piteous  shade  of  doom 
Obscured  their  lives  with  fatal,  fateful  gloom. 

E'en  as  the  plow  uproots  thy  stalk  and  stem, 
Leaving  thee  withering,  dead  —  so  't  was  with  them : 

Torn  from  their  haunts,  they  knew  not  where  to  fiy; 
Robbed  of  their  own,  they  knew  naught  but  to  die. 

Hath  all  the  warm,  red  blood  shed  in  that  fight, 
Enriched  and  nourished  thee  —  thou  wild  rose  bright? 

Both  Red  and  White  men's  blood  in  thee  have  share, 
Changed  but  in  form  their  lives  —  and  thou  art  fair ! 

Art  thou  the  token  of  a  higher  life? 

Wast  born  to  shadow  forth  the  end  of  strife? 

18 


FROM  AN  INDIAN  BATTLEFIELD 

May  it  be  so!     Beneath  the  heavens'  blue 

Send  forth  thy  fragrance  'til  the  dream  comes  true 


Of  Brotherhood  of  Man.     This  thought,  with  thee, 
Comes  from  that  awful  battlefield  to  me! 


19 


u 


A  LETTER  FROM  ALASKA 

P  HERE,  my  dear  ones,  it  is  Christmas  night; 

Up  here  is  the  land  o'  gold; 
And  Santy  has  taken  his  Southward  flight, — 

Santy,  who  never  grows  old. 


Up  here  is  where  millions  of  sparkles  glow, 
Strung  thick  on  a  white  moonbeam; 

Up  here  Christmas  spangles  are  made,  you  know,- 
Spangles  that  glimmer  and  gleam. 


Up  here  there  are  colors  of  green  and  gold, — 

Up  here  in  the  Northern  sky; 
Up  here  there  are  babies  that  mothers  hold  — 

0,  to  hear  your  lullaby! 


This  life  is  worth  living,  my  babes,  my  wife, 

Up  here  in  the  land  of  gold; 
But  to-night  I  would  give  ten  years  o'  my  life 

If  my  arms  could  each  enfold. 


20 


KEATS 

DEAR  Keats:     Tiptoe  upon  what  little  hill 
Art  thou?     Doth  still  thy  poet  fancy's  flight 
Circle  the  furthest  stars  with  wings  of  light? 
Doth  tremble  now  with  conscious  power  to  trill 
Sweet  as  a  skylark,  clear  as  mountain  rill 

Of  myrtle  vales,  wreath'd  clouds  and  spangled  night; 
St.   Agnes'   Eve;  divine   Endymion's  plight; 
And  dost  thou  yet  pure  melody  distil? 


Where'er  thou  art,  far  from  thy  Roman  tomb, 
Mayst  thou  retain  of  earthly  love  and  pain 

Only  the  sweetness,  as  the  Hybla  bee 
Culls  only  honey   from  some  poisonous  bloom; 
And  know,  though  feeling  thou  hadst  writ  in  vain, 
That  we  still  read,  and  love,  and  cherish  thee. 


21 


SINCE  that  far  time  when  on  Mount  Latmos'  slope 
Ye  drowsed  by  waters  clear,  on  daffodils, 
What  wanderings   have   ye  known;   what  loves'   fierce 

thrills 

Than  those   Diana   caused,  as,   ye   asleep, 
She  bent   o'er   thee   with   an   imperial   sweep 
From  crescent  car   low-hung  above  the  hills, 
And  kissed   thine  eyes   awake  to   all  the   ills 
And  pangs  of  love, —  its  joy  and  rapture  deep? 


Ah,   Sweet,   forgive  me!     I   care   not   to   know 
Thy  ways   since  we   so   loved   in   ancient   Greece. 

Yet  would  I   ease  the  pain  most  plainly  seen 
In  thy  clear  eyes  at  times  —  that  look  of  woe. 

Would  I  might  press  soft  lips  of  balm  —  bring  peace 
As  when  thou  wert  a  god,  and  I,  Night's  Queen! 


22 


E 


MY  MOTHER'S  LETTERS 

ACH  week  I   get  a  long  letter 
From    mother,    with    homey    news; 

How   the   cat   has    had   new   kittens 
Or  the  church  has   had  new  pews. 


She   tells    of  work   she   is   doing 
(I   wish   I   could   do  as  much!); 

And   ever   and    through   each   letter, 
Her   love,    and    the   mother-touch. 


Of  late  years  the  letters  are  changing: 
It   always    fills   me   with   dread 

To   note    how    often    she   mentions 
That   someone  we   knew   is   dead. 


Some  day   I  will   get  a  letter, 

I'll    know    there's    sorrow   in    store: 

Another    will    write   me,    saying, 

"  Your   mother   will   write   no   more." 


And  then  my  heart  will  be  broken, 
No  more   my   mother   I'll   see. 

O  God!     Make  my  heart-ache  lighter! 
Can't    she   write    from   heaven   to   me? 


THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL 

THERE'S  crape  on  the  door 
And  the  shades  are  drawn: 
There's  a  hush  through  the  house, 
And  men  in  the  yard. 
There  are  many  chairs 
Brought  by  neighborly  hands 
And  flowering  plants 

And  a  sprig  of  scented  leaf  and  wreathes 
To  lay  on  the  dead. 
And  the  mourners  sit 
While  the  Elder  reads; 
And  the  clock  ticks  loud 
And  the  choir  sings 
As  the  kindly  folk  pass  singly  by 
To  gaze  on  the  one 
So  solemnly  still. 
Then  the  long  line  crawls 
Through  the  village  street 
To  the  bough-lined  grave 
And  the  waiting  spade. 
Then  home: 
To  the  empty  house 
With  the  shades  pushed  up 
And  the  chairs  in  place; 
The  table  set 
And  a  fire  built  — 
Oh,  the  ache  in  the  throat 
And  the  pang  of  the  heart! 


THE  REUNION 

"  You  damned  ol'  Yank!  "  says  he. 
"  You  Johnny  Reb!  "  says  I. 

AN'  THAR  we  laid  at  Chattanoogy  cussin*  sum, 
While  bullets  whistled  past  jes'  like  a  bee-hive's  hum; 
An'  nary  one  c'u'd  move,  f er  both  of  us  was  shot  — 
He  in  the  laigs  an'  I  —  all  you,  as  like  as  not 
Have  saw  that  I'm  a  little  shy  o'  laigs,  myself, 
But  still  I  ain't  by  no  means  put  upon  the  shelf. 
Wall,  as  I  started  out  to  tell:     We  laid  thar  hours 
Beneath  the  brilin'  sun  —  thar  warn't  no  shady  bowers 
Within  a  hunned  miles.     I  got  to  know  his  face 
So's  I  would  know  it  if  I  seen  it  any  place; 


An'  as  he  had  no  better  thing  to  do,  he  glared 
At  me  an'  we  both  thought,  'til  help  come,  we  was  paired 
To  die  fer  sure.     I  never  thought  o'  him  agin 
Until  to-day  —  Memorial  Day.     I  caught  a  grin 
Jes'  as  we'd  put  some  flowers  on  a  Johnny's  grave; 
An'  thar  he  was,  in  gray,  on  crutches  —  but  still  brave ! 
An'  smiles  broke  out  a-tween  us  thick  as  chickenpox  — 
I  wisht  ye'd  hearn  the  cheers  when  hands  we  locks ! 

"  You  damned  ol'  Yank !  "  says  he. 
"  You  Johnny  Reb!  "  says  I. 


25 


SEATTLE 

DENSE,    dense,   through   countless   years,    the    forest 
grew, — 

Cedar  and  maple,  mountain  ash  and  firs, — 
And  none  there  lived  who  were  interpreters 
Of  what  it  whispered  as  the  night  winds  blew, 
Or  dreamed  that  hillside  trails  the  wild  deer  knew 
Were  of  wide  thoroughfares  the  forerunners. 
And  ne'er  upon  the  Sound  came  voyagers 
In  larger  bark  than  the  Siwash  canoe. 

Behold!     Where  moaned  the  trees  their  coming  fate, 
A  spreading  city  lies  'twixt  lake  and  sea. 

Where  hunter  followed  game  tracks  dank  and  dim, 
Commerce  and  culture  touch  glass  rim  to  rim. 

Where  Indian  fished,  lie  world-ships  filled  with  freight  — 
Seattle,  splendid,  sired  by  Destiny ! 


26 


IN  COUNTRY  CALM 

kROM  cities'  din  I  set  my  feet, 
There   struggling   millions    strive,    compete, 

From  flaunted  sin,  from  hollow  psalm, 
From  solitude  of  crowded  street, 

I  gladly  turn  to  country  calm. 


No  more  the  stress,  the  toil,  alarm, 
If  they  be  cost  of  laurel,  palm. 

No  loud  acclaim  nor  long-sought  seat 
Among  Fame's  few  could  e'er  give  balm, 

Nor  tempt  me  the  pain  to  repeat. 


Would  I  could  live  my  life  complete 
Where  myriad   blossoms   cluster   sweet; 

Where  birds,  cloud-shadows,  hill  and  farm 
Inspire  my  heart,  defy  defeat, 

And  uplift  with  the  country  calm. 


LINCOLN 

; WOMAN  thought  to  write  an  ode 
On  Lincoln;   for  her  heart  o'erflowed 
At  thought  of  all  he'd  been  to  men 
Or  black  or  white,  or  now  or  then. 
But  as  she  wrote,  her  watching  boys 
Asked:     "  Did  his  birthday  bring  him  toys?  " 


Of  bitter  poverty  she  told, 
Of  puncheon  floors  and  biting  cold. 
Then  softly  bade  them  go  and  play 
While  she  her  message  wrote  for  aye. 
But  ere  she  wrote  another  line: 
"Say,  mother:     Did  he  never  whine?" 


Once  more  she  laid  her  pen  aside, 
And  simply  told  how  hard  he  tried 
To  make  himself  a  man  of  worth, 
Nor  hindered  be  by  lowly  birth. 
She  spoke  of  gibes,  nor  once  foresaw: 
"  I'd  like  to  hit  'em  on  their  jaw!  " 


With  smiling  lips  but  tearful  glance, 

She  told  of  every  circumstance 

To  show  his  heart,  bred  from  the  soil, 

Bled  for  the  nation,  in  turmoil. 

How,  though  he  played  with  little  Tad, 

His  eyes  were  somber,  lips  were  sad. 


28 


LINCOLN 

Much  more  she  told,  then  sent  them  out 
To  run  and  play  with  joyous  shout, 
The  while  she  quelled  her  heart's  desire, 
And  mended  stockings  by  the  fire. 
The  household  tasks  must  fill  her  days 
And  be  her  meed,  not  poet's  bays! 


But,  as  she  worked,  an  instant's  pause, 
Made  her  care  not  for  men's  applause. 
For,  underneath  the  window-sill, 
Her  lads  were  talking  Lincoln  still. 
No  greater  man,"  said  one,  "  than  he !  " 
Say,  brother:     Let's  be  like  him  —  geei  " 


29 


MELPOMENE 

THE  Muses  nine  I  bore  Olympian  Jove: 
Clio  and  Thalia  and  the  queen  of  song, 
As  well  as  Terpsichore  dancing  through  the  throng 
For  whom  Erato  played.     One  daughter  strove 
To  write  heroic  verse  within  Parnassian  grove 
While  other  two  in  argument  waxed  strong 
On  words  and  stars.     Not  one  of  these  I  wrong 
To  leave  until  the  last  (our  souls  are  interwove) 


Melpomene,  born  when  the  lightning's  heat 
Fused  in  love's  crucible  all  heaven  and  hell, — 

While  thunders  rolled  yet  still  the  rainbow's  hues 
Gave  hope  of  calm. —  Her  destiny  complete 
She  ever  reaches  heights,  and  depths  as  well, 
Where  none  compare  with  her,  the  tragic  Muse. 


30 


I 


I'M  NOT  ALONE 

'M  NOT  alone,  though  some  may  think  me  so 
Whom  I  care  not  my  inner  life  to  know. 

They  only  see  the  masks  that  hide  my  heart,- 
The  one  I  wear  when  in  Life's  busy  mart., 
Or  Folly's  guise,  concealing  pain  below. 


How  can  they  know,  or  be  they  friend  or  foe, 
My  spirit  soars,  light  as  a  thistle-blow 

When  I  am  most  alone, —  when  most  apart, 

I'm   not    alone. 


In  solitude  I  read  thy  words,  aglow 
With  fire  Olympian   gods  sometimes  bestow. 
I  hear  thy  voice,  vibrant  with  subtle  art 
That   charms,    enthralls.     Ay,   reading   thus,    I    start 
To  meet  thy  lips,  so  near  they  seem  —  Ah,  no, 

I'm  not  alone ! 


31 


THE  WATERFRONT 

WHAT  see  ye  as  ye  look  abroad,  along  the  city's  wall, 
Where  man  hath  leveled  hills  for  gain  and  razed  the 

forests  tall? 

Where  many  doubt  there  be  a  God ;  where  sailors  fight  and 
brawl 

Along  the  city's  waterfront, 
The  waterfront,  the  waterfront, 

Where  harbor  lights,  through  murk  and  gloom,  hold  tides 
and  thee  in  thrall. 

I  see  me  miles  and  miles  o'  streets,  and  miles  o'  wharves 
there  be, 

Where,  'stead  o'  craft  of  Indian  make,  lie  ships  from  over 
sea; 

And  jeweled  javelins  pierce  night's   waves   that  lap,  oh, 
tranquilly 

Along  the  city's  waterfront, 
The  waterfront,  the  waterfront, 

Where  man  hath  worked  his  problems  out  an'  it  were  des- 
tiny. 

What  see  ye  as  ye  look  abroad,  along  the  city's  wall? 
While  yonder  women,  pale  and  wan,  make  moan  and  weep 

and  call 

For  husbands  on  ships  long  o'erdue,  men  run  and  pull  and 
haul 

Along  the  city's  waterfront, 
The  waterfront,  the  waterfront, 

At  one  who  makes  to   drown  herself,  her  shame  thus  to 
forestall. 

32 


THE  WATERFRONT 

I  see  the  sunset's  tender  rose  the  busy  wharves  enfold; 
I  see  me  gallant  ships  come  home,  laden  with  Northern 

gold. 

I  see  strong  men  leap  from  the  decks  and  love  once  more 
is  told 

Along  the  city's  waterfront, 
The  waterfront,  the  waterfront, 
And  every  eye  with  joy  is  wet,  as  happy  wives  they  hold. 

What  see  ye  as  ye  look  abroad,  along  the  city's  wall, 
But   bartering  of   greed   and   sin,   warehouses,   large   and 

small  ? 

Through  driving  rain  the  harbor  lights  show  dimly  through 
night's  pall 

Along  the  city's  waterfront, 
The  waterfront,  the  waterfront, 

Where  derelicts  o'  men  and  ships  loom  ghastly  as  they 
crawl. 

This  see  I  by  the  harbor  lights  that  gleam  through  driving 

rain : 

I  see  the  City  Beautiful,  where  men  from  sin  abstain 
And  Brotherhood  means  far,  far  more  than  empty  words 
and  vain. 

Along  the  city's  waterfront, 
The  waterfront,  the  waterfront, 
I  see  me  visions  fair  to  see  when  Love  alone  shall  reign. 


THE  GOD  OF  LOVE 

god  of  love  came  by 
JL  As  I  sat  dreaming  in  my  bow'r. 

He  looked  on  me,  O  happy  hour!  — 
An  arrow  swift  can  fly. 

The  god  of  love  came  by 
Nor  thought  from  wounding  to  refrain. 
My  heart  was  pierced,  O  joy!  O  pain! 
Love  is  to  laugh  and  cry. 

The  god  of  love  came  by 
(Coming  and   going  in  a  breath). 
Now  welcome  life;  now  welcome  death, 
For  love,  sweet  love,  know  I! 


A 


IMMORTELLES 

TINY  seed  lay  buried  'neath  a  clod, — 
A  clod  whose  weight  was  heavy  on  its  heart 
As  that  great  stone,  of  Jesus'  tomb  a  part. 
All  heaven's  tears  fell  on  the  dull,  cold  sod, 
While  many  a  footstep  passed  and  weary  trod 
Where  it  lay  prisoned  in  Life's  busy  mart: 
Yet  still  it  hoped  that  it  might  upward  start 
And  grow  to  bud  and  bloom  —  a  smile  of  God. 


Thou,  too,  my  soul!     Look  up,  nor  be  averse 
To  casting  off  clods  wet  with  heartsick  tears. 
No  more  in  mortal  darkness  need  ye  grope: 

Know  that  the  power  that  fills  the  universe 
Is  thy  birthright  instead  of  doubts  and  fears 
And    Immortelles    will    bloom  —  The    Flowers    of 
Hope. 


DREAMS  0'  THE  PAST 

MOTHER  at  her  spinning  wheel,  father  on  the  hill; 
This  is  what  I  oft  recall,  and  I  see  at  will 
Billowy  summer  clouds  that  drift,  and  the  ambient  air 
Scents  new-mown  hay  spicily,  for  June,  O  June,  is  fair! 
School  is  out,  the  tasks  are  done;  now  for  home  and  play, 
Chasing  yellow  butterflies,  whiling  hours  away. 

When  I  seek  my  mother  dear,  when  my  play  is  done, 
Through  the  attic  window  small,  shines  the  westering  sun. 
Under  rafters  gray  with  age,  soon  I  see  her  gown, 
Flecked  with  fluffy  bits  of  wool,  light  as  thistle-down. 
Silvery  yarn  on  spindle  bright,  slie  is  guiding,  smooth  — 
Memories  crowding  as  I  dream,  pain  and  sorrow  soothe. 

Rich   and   brown    the    spinning   wheel;    firm   each    queer, 

sprawled  leg; 

High  are  piled  the  fleecy  rolls,  on  the  forward  peg. 
Back  and  forth  my  mother  steps,  humming  soft  and  slow, 
Whirs  the  wheel  crescendo  loud,  then  she  whirs  it  low. 
Oh,  the  picture  that  she  made,  in  that  attic  dim  — 
I  shall  see  while  life  endures,  hear  her  quaint  old  hymn! 

Now  a  roll  is  taken  up,  joined  with  dext'rous  twist, 
Not  a  pause  in  whirling  wheel,  not  a  step  is  missed. 
Carded  fleece,  a  long  day's  work,  lies  before  her  high 
(No  such  yarn  as  mother  spun  can  modern  shops  supply!). 
Steps  she  near  and  steps  she  far,  with  a  stately  tread, 
Holding  firm  the  fine-drawn  wool,  up  above  her  head. 

36 


DREAMS  OF  THE  PAST 

Martins  in  the  martin-house,  robins,  bob-o-links, 

Sing  and  trill  so  loud  and  sweet,  while  scythe  and  snath 

clinks. 

Apple-blows   and  locust-bloom   send   their   perfumes   high, 
Pennyroyal,  caraway,  and  rhubarb  grow  nigh. 
Father  mowing  on  the  hill,  mother  at  the  wheel  — 
Pictures  of  the  long  ago,  from  the  twilight  steal. 

Goldthread  and  thoroughwort,  lobelia,  burdock  leaves, 
Tansy,  sage,  and  spearmint  hang,  dried,  beneath  the  eaves. 
Comjnonsense  and  roots  and  herbs  —  these  were  good  for 

ills; 

Farmer-folk  like  us,  you  know,  ne'er  knew  doctor's  pills. 
Catch  a  cold  or  take  a  chill,  mother  steeps  a  drink  — 
I  can  taste  the  nauseous  quaff,  as  I  sit  and  think! 

Honey  bees  and  bleating  lambs  work,  or  skip  and  play, 
Father's  in  the  mowing  piece,  busy  making  hay. 
Tabby  cat  and  kitties  dear,  welcomed  as  they  come, 
Lie  and  dream  in  sweet  content,  lulled  by  droning  hum 
Of  the  wheel,  when  mother  spins,  for  her  own  dear  brood  — 
How  the  wind  outside  to-night  brings  reminiscent  mood ! 

Times  have  changed:  the  garret  low  holds  the  swifts  and 

reel, 

Here's  the  basket  for  the  cats,  there's  the  spinning  wheel, 
Still  outside  the  posies  blow,  hums  the  drowsy  bee, 
But  I  hear  no  whirring  wheel,  scythe  nor  sickle  see. 
Father  mows  no  more  the  hill ;  mother's  task  is  o'er  — 
Yet  through  tears  I  see  them  still,  as  in  days  of  yore. 

37 


w 


WHEEL,  GRAY  GULL 

(HEEL,  gray  gull,  and  scream  in  the  wind! 
Peer  uncannily  into  the  storm-racked  sea! 
What  think'st  thou  to  find  beneath  the  waves? 
My  Love  is  not  there ;  but  O !  he  is  dead  —  to  me ! 


TACOMA 

YEARS,  eons,  ago,  when  all  the  world  was  new, 
A  mountain's  fir-green  whitened  to  the  sky, 
The  sunset's  glow  serving  to  sanctify 
Monarchial  majesty.     A  splendid  view 
Of  forests,  glades  and  leagues  of  waters  blue 
Lay  at  its  base  unscanned  by  human  eye; 
And  forest-feet  in  stealthy  passing  by 
Was  all  of  life  save  as  the  wild  birds  flew. 

Still  stands  the  Sentinel,  magnificent, 

Watching,  o'er  solitudes  no  more, 
Where  Nature  spreads  her  gifts,  munificent! 
The  sea-gulls  scream  —  world-ships  load  heavily 

From  mills  and  marts  built  on  the  hills  and  shore,- 
Tacoma!    Watch  it!    City  of  Destiny! 


PROFANITY 

WHEN  the  preacher  took  for  his  text  one  morn  the 
words  "  Swear  not  at  all !  " 
In  the  deacon's  pew  sat  two  well-dressed  men, —  Grimes 

and  his  brother,  Paul. 
And  the  deacon  sighed  as  the  priest  went  on  to  show  the 

awful  sin 

Of  profanity,  and  he  hoped  good  heed  were  taken  by  his 
kin. 


As  they  stood  on  the  curb  when  church  was  o'er,  old  Grimes 

discoursed  amain, 
And  the  sermon  good  got  his  highest  praise,  its  need  was 

his  refrain: 
"  There  are  far  too  few  who  are  not  profane !  "  (he  sighed 

most  piously) 
"  And  I  wish  that  you'd  take  that  text  to  heart  —  the  bonds 

that  tie  us  —  see?  " 


But   Paul  heard   not,   for  he   spied   a   horse,   dock-tailed, 

checked  high,  steel  bit, 
And  he  clenched  his  fists  and  he  cried  "  God  damn  "  (the 

deacon  near  had  a  fit) 
"  The   man   who   can   torture   a   horse   like   that !  " —  The 

other  then  spoke  he: 
"  You've  disgraced  us   both   by  that  hasty  speech  —  that 

rig  belongs  to  me !  " 

40 


PROFANITY 

Old  Grimes  mis-stepped  as  he  raised  his  foot  —  the  car- 
riage step  was  low, 

And  he  snarled  with  rage  (for  his  corns  were  soft),  "  Gol- 
ding,  dod  blast  my  toe !  " 

When  the  pious  Grimes  and  his  brother  Paul  stand  before 

the  great  I  AM, 
Would  you  bet  on  him  who  said  "  Gol  ding !  "  or  the  one 

who  cried  "  God  damn ! " 


41 


IN  OBERAMMERGAU 

IN  OBERAMMERGAU  the  simple  peasants  make 
Crosses    and   Christs    of   wood, —  symbols    of    Christian 

creed ; 
Blacksmiths  swing  high  their  sledge;  maids  serve  and  spin 

and  bake; 

Life's  homely  tasks  are  done;  none  are  in  dire  need 

In  Oberammergau. 

In  Oberammergau  the  guileless  folk  devout 
Fulfil  a  vow  once  made, —  kept  as  't  were  made  to-day ! 
With  not  a  thought  for  praise;  with  highest  art  throughout; 
With  sincere  piety;  give  they  the  Passion  Play 

In  Oberammergau. 

In  Oberammergau  the  children  hope  to  be 
Chosen  some  day  the  Christ,  John,  or  the  Mary  mild. 
High  is  the  standard  held  (lo!  the  world  comes  to  see) 
Even  for  Judas'  kiss,  e'en  for  those  who  reviled  — 

In  Oberammergau. 

In  Oberammergau  the  hours  are  hushed  and  still 

While,    'neath   the   summer's   sky,   held   is   the   quickened 

breath ; 

Clasped  are  the  tensioned  hands ;  men  sob  and  women  thrill, 
As  reverently  is  giv'n  Christ's  life  and  dreadful  death 

In  Oberammergau. 

In  Oberammergau  the  twilight  brings  belled  kine; 
The  players  doff  their  robes  and  sit  in  tranquil  peace 

42 


IN  OBERAMMERGAU 

'Round  frugal  board;  then  work,  'til,  bowing  toward  the 

shrine 
Their  toil-worn  hands  have  carved,  they  seek  sleep's  sweet 

release 

In  Oberammergau. 

In  Oberammergau  —  Ah!  they've  the  lesson  learned 
That  hidden  is  to  those  who  watch  with  blase  mien ; 
Not  by  the  Passion  Play;  but  by  the  black  bread  earned 
Do  they  portray  the  Word  taught  by  the  Nazarene  — 

In  Oberammergau. 


OUR  BATTLESHIPS 

earliest  time  man,  with  his  fellow  man 
Has  fought  for  lust,  for  gain,  on  land  and  sea; 
Fought  with  his  naked  hands  or  branch  of  tree; 
Or,  from  some  hollow  trunk,  a  boat  began 
To  hollow,  that  would  further  still  his  clan 
In  conquest.     Ages  passed,  less  peacefully 
As  he  increased  still  more  war's  panoply, 
Nor  thought  of  Brotherhood  as  God's  great  plan. 

But  now,  how  changed!  With  every  new  device 
On  shore  or  sea  to  further  war's  alarm, 

Our  country  takes  the  lead  to  bring  surcease 

Of  tears  and  broken  hearts  —  war's  awful  price ! 
Around  the  world  our  flag  will  strife  disarm, 

Floating  from  ships  of  —  war?    No!  Ships  of  Peace! 


44 


w 


SILENCE 

I  HEN  one  we  love  with  Charon  doth  embark 

How  chill  the  air,  how  wide  the  Styx  appears, 
And  pitiless  the  silence  as  we  strain  our  ears 
To  catch  a  breath  from  out  the  awful  dark 
That  stuns,  appals.     The  stellar  spaces  stark 

Must  be  less  void  of  sound  than  that  which  sears 
Our  very  souls  as  we  cry  out  with  tears 
For  one  more  gleam  from  Life's  extinguished  spark. 


But  if  on  earth  lives  one,  who,  passive  grown, 
Shows  by  indifference  that  love's  on  the  wane, 

Blacker  the  darkness,  wider  the  abyss, 
More  dread  the  stillness  as  we  walk  alone, 

Than  that  which  closes  'round  Death's  chilling  train, — 
The  silence  of  the  grave  sweet  solace  were  to  this! 


45 


I 


BALLADE  TO  A  POET 

F  your  stomach  shrinks  and  your  purse  is  lean 
On  the  Western  slope  or  in  Boston's  clime, 

When  you  peer  around  and  there  isn't  a  bean  — 
It  is  then  you  must  think  of  a  perfect  rhyme 
Or  your  chance  is  poor  for  a  hot  bird  prime 

And  a  bottle  cold  and  —  oh,  well,  you  know!  — 
But  whatever  you  sing,  of  love,  or  lime, 

It  is  best  not  to  tinge  it  with  indigo. 


If  your  clothes  get  thin  and  bag  at  the  knees 

And  they're  frayed  below  and  they  show  the  grime 

Of  a  year  of  wear  (O,  the  looks  of  these!) 
It  is  then  you  must  think  of  a  perfect  rhyme 
Or  your  chance  is  poor  for  a  good  old  time 

On  a  girl-strewn  beach  or  a  portico  — 

But  whatever  you  sing  with  a  yearnful  chime 

It  is  best  not  to  tinge  it  with  indigo. 


If  the.  girl  you  love  rides  with  Joe  or  Bill 
And  you  long  to  commit  some  awful  crime; 

To  annihilate,  or  to  maim  or  kill, 

It  is  then  you  must  think  of  a  perfect  rhyme 
Or  your  chance  is  poor  for  the  upward  climb 

To  a  seat  next  her  on  the  tally-ho. 

But  whatever  you  sing  her  of  love  sublime 

It  is  best  not  to  tinge  it  with  indigo. 


46 


BALLADE  TO  A  POET 

ENVOY 

If  poet  you'd  be,  lover,  paradigm, 
It  is  then  you  must  think  of  a  perfect  rhyme. 
But  whatever  you  sing,  for  love,  for  dough, 
It  is  best  not  to  tinge  it  with  indigo. 


A 


REGRADING 

IS  some  great  city,  building  for  its  needs, 
Regrades  the  hills  and  levels  where  it  must, 
Strong,  unrelenting,  when  one  intervenes 
For  tree  or  home, —  so  may  we  understand, 
As  love,  hearthstone,  belief  in  man-made  creeds 
(The  landmarks  of  our  lives),  are  swept  away, 
That  only  thus  can  we  build  firm  and  true 
The  structure  of  our  souls  that  God  has  planned. 


48 


GROUP  OF  SONGS 

For  Music 

LONGING 
DESPAIR 
ECSTASY 


I 


LONGING 

WALKED  in  the  garden  cool  and  dim 
Where  the  birds  were  singing  their  vesper  hymn. 
I  walked  in  the  paths  hung  with  roses  sweet, 
Waiting  and  longing  my  love  to  greet  — 

But  she  was  not  there, 
She  was  not  there ! 


I  listened  long  to  the  whippoorwill 
Where  his  song  entranced  in  the  garden  still. 
I  listened  long  to  the  whispering  breeze, 
As  I  waited  Love  'neath  the  sighing  trees  — 
But  she  was  not  there, 
She  was  not  there ! 


I  waited  my  love  the  long,  long  night, 

The  sleepy  birds  twittered,  the  stars  were  bright. 

The  roses  were  heavy,  with  dew  were  wet, 

My  heart  was  heavy,  I  could  not  forget  — 

But  she  was  not  there, 
She  was  not  there ! 


DESPAIR 

ON  shining  sands  of  ocean  where  the  sunset's  rays  are 
glowing, 
Where  the  little  waves  are  coaxing  and  the  breakers  dash 

in  foam ; 
Is  she  coming  in  the  glory?     She  will  hear  the  old,  old 

story, 

She  will  find  my  heart  is  waiting,  waiting  here  to  take  her 
home. 

On  the  shore  and  in  the  twilight  when  the  autumn  winds  are 

blowing, 
When  the  clouds  are  drifting  o'er  me  and  the  new  moon 

hides  her  face; 
When  the  sea  gulls  scream  and  hover,  over  me,  a  patient 

lover, 
Will  my  love  come  forth  to  meet  me  by  her  mercy,  by  her 

grace  ? 

Comes  the  storm  and  comes  the  darkness,  all  my  heart's 

distress  I'm  knowing; 
For  God's  kindness  seems  withholden  on  the  sea  and  on 

the  shore. 
And    I    wander,    broken-hearted  —  we    forever    more    are 

parted, 
I  shall  see  my  love,  no  never,  I  shall  look  for  her  no  more. 


51 


I 


ECSTASY 

N  forest  aisles  I  walk,  in  sore  defeat, 
From  garden  fair,  from  ocean's  ceaseless  beat, 
Into  a  world  where  nature's   myriads   teem, 
And  bosky  dusk  is  broken  by  chance  gleam 
Of  filtering  sunlight  as  leaves  part  and  meet. 


When  hark!     I  hear  a  sound  of  running  feet; 
I  hear  a  voice  call  me, —  beseech,  entreat ; 

I  scarce  can  raise  mine  eyes  — 't  is  but  a  dream 

In  forest  aisles. 


Yet  never  bird  gave  note  so  passing  sweet! 

Yet  never  rose  can  with  this  face  compete ! 

Like   sun-kissed  waves   these   eyes   the   storm   redeem 
And  all  my  anguish  turns  to  bliss  supreme 

For   lo!     My    Love   comes  —  Comes!     O   joy   complete 

In  forest  aisles. 


T 


WAITING 

EA-KETTLE,  tea-kettle,  sing  me  a  song, 

So  that  the  time  will  not  seem  quite  so  long, 

'Til   someone   comes   up   the   lane   whom  we  know, — 

Someone,  dear  kettle,  who's  just  a  bit  slow. 

Tea-kettle  —  s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s ! 

Tea-kettle,  tea-kettle,  pleasant  thy  hum, 
'Twill  not  be  long,  I  am  sure,  ere  he  come! 
Sing  'til  he  comes;  then  boil  briskly  for  tea  — 
O,  if  he'd  only  ask  briskly  for  me! 

Tea-kettle  —  s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s ! 

Tea-kettle,  tea-kettle,  hear'st  his  cart? 

Which  sings  the  loudest  now,  thou  or  my  heart? 

Thou'rt  boiling  over!     Sure,  that  is  a  sign 

He's  going  to  ask  me!     My  own  sweetheart  —  mine! 


53 


OUT  ON  THE  DREAMLAND  SEA 

OUT  on  the  dreamland  sea!     Out  on   the  dreamland 
sea! 

Ah,  only  to  glide  on  Sleep's  restful  tide, 
Out  on  the  dreamland  sea. 

Oh,  some  set  sail  from  a  sheltered  bay 
(Forget-me-nots  cluster  there), 
With  a  good-night  kiss  and  a  fond  caress 
Of  love,  and  a  silent  prayer. 

Out  on  the  dreamland  sea!     Out  on  the  dreamland  sea! 
How  sweet  't  is  to  glide  on  Love's  fullest  tide, 
Out  on  the  dreamland  sea. 

But  those  who  know  of  the  secret  ways, — 
Remorse  and  its  net'ling  sting, 
Meet  angry  waves  and  the  tempest's  roar, 
No  peace  will  their  voyage  bring. 

Out  on  the  dreamland  sea!     Out  on  the  dreamland  sea! 
They  dread  to  ride  on  Sleep's  raging  tide, 
Out  on  the  dreamland  sea. 

For  those  who  start  from  a  tear-washed  strand 
Is  nothing  but  ecstasy; 

They  may  meet  their  lost,  past  the  harbor  bar, — 
Their  lost  on  the  dreamland  sea. 


OUT  ON  THE  DREAMLAND  SEA 

Out  on  the  dreamland  sea!     Out  on  the  dreamland  sea! 
Of  all  who  glide  on  Sleep's  pulsing  tide, 
They  go  most  happily! 


55 


SONGS  O'  THE  WEST 

Songs  o*  the  West!     The  glorious  West! 
This   land   of  boundless  promise  and  illimitable   achieve- 
ments — 

Heritage  of  the  rich  in  strength  and  purposeful  of  soul  — 

/  sing  the  West! 

ONGS  of  the  West!     Hear  now  the  call 
Of  the  Father  of  Waters !     T  is  faint  as  the  echo 
Of  fairy-bells  when  first  it  starts   singing, 
Growing  loud  and  yet  louder  as  majestic  it  rolls  — 

It  sings  o'  the  West! 

A  minor  strain!     Hush!     Listen! 
Canst  hear  the  dying  shriek  of  women  and  babes; 
The  howl  of  savages;  the  loud  roar  of  fires, 
Sweeping  the  West  in  long,  long  chords  of  pain? 

Thank  God,  't  is  stilled! 

The  major  tones  increase!     Soft,  summer  breezes 
Stir  the  vibrant  harp  of  rip'ning  harvests ; 
Ripple   silk-tasseled  corn  and  yellow  wheat; 
Cool  the   stream's   flow   for  contented   cattle  — 

A  pastoral  song! 

Ringing  hosannas!     Harmonic  thunders 
Herald  the   geysers !     Wagnerian   discords 
Throb  into  beauty  as  the  Yellowstone 
Plunges  with  rapture  into  its  waiting,  radiant  canyon, 
While  over  all  the  clear  note  of  Old  Faithful  chants 

The  Song  o'  the  West! 
56 


SONGS  0'  THE  WEST 

The  psalm!  the  psalm!     Tumultuous  the  sounds 
As  mighty  rivers  bear  their  part  in  Earth's  canticle 
Here  toward  the  sun-setting!     With  glee  and  madrigal 
Cascades  and  rills  chime,  silver-toned  — 

Vibrating  symphony! 

The  beat  of  drums!     Resonant  the  spray 
Is  flung  on  rocky  cliff,  on  far-spread  golden  sands. 
Lo!     On  Alaska's  shores  the  deep-toned  orchestra 
Takes  up  the  splendid  theme  — 

The  West!     The  West! 

0  Western  Songs!     Ye  blend  in  one 

Of  throbbing  life  invigorating  the  soul! 

Thy  mountains,  glaciers,  islands,  harbors  deep; 

Thy  wide  horizons  reaching  unto  God 

Uplift,  inspire  a  listening  Universe  — 

Songs  o'  the  West! 


57 


THE  GAME 


44  T     WIN!"  cried  Death,  with  a  triumphant  grin. 
J.     "  My  body,  yes;  but  not  the  soul  within!  " 


58 


A  WEE,  WILD  FLOWER 

WEE,  wild  flower,  uplifting  winsome  face 
Upon  a  wind-blown  crag,  whose  fretted  base 
Was  wet  with  white-foamed,  flying  spray 
Of  eager  river,  hurrying  on  its  way 
To  unknown  shores,  brought  calm  as  by  God's  grace 
To  one  who  almost  crushed,  with  heartsick  pace 
And  eyes  far-gazed   (all  hopeless  to  efface 
The  river's  luring  call  by  night  and  day)  — 
A  wee,  wild  flower. 

Its  sweet  content  to  live  in  lonely  place 
Soothed,  as  it  bloomed  nor  cared  for  human  race. 
"  Watch  rivers  madly  rush,"  it  seemed  to  say, 
"  To  new  delights ;  peace  is  for  those  who  stay, 
Nor  long  to  blossom  in  some  other  space, 

A  wee,  wild  flower." 


59 


THE  WINEPRESS 

;  be  each  ardent  hope 
Make  from  them,  Lord,  Christ's  sacramental  wine! 


TF  crushed  must  be  each  ardent  hope  of  mine, 


60 


A 


ALASKA 

N  old,  old  book  one  day  was  put  on  sale: 

Bound  in  dead  white,  clasped  with  a  seal  of  ice; 
And,  as  't  was  writ  in  unknown  script,  the  price 

Was  thought  too  high,  for  none  could  read  the  tale. 

To  buy  or  not  to  buy?     Which  would  prevail? 
Since  bought  (to  make  my  metaphor  concise), 
The  search  has  been,  oft  with  life's  sacrifice, 

To  find  its  cryptic  key  —  to  no  avail. 

For  years,  long  years,  men  turned  the  pages  o'er 
And  hoped  to  solve  Alaska's  mystery. 

Now  have  they  found  what  wise  men  had  foretold: 
A  word  more  potent  than  Magician's  lore; 
A  word  unlocking  worlds,  O  magic  key !  — 
On  every  page  and  line  shines  gold,  gold,  gold! 


61 


A 


THE  MOUNTAIN  OF  THE  SOUND 

Mt.  Rainier 

LL  day  the  soft,  thick  fog-bank  hid  from  view 
The  hoary,  massive  Mountain  of  the  Sound, 
The  while  the  bustling  city's  ceaseless  round 

Of  toil  and  hopes  and  fears   (as  hours  flew) 

Went  on.     And  none  thought  if  the  sky  were  blue 
Or  gray;  or,  far  from  din,  peace  could  be  found 
And  nooks  where  wild  anemones  abound, 

And  silences  where  man  could  faith  renew. 

And  then  came  night, —  soft-sailing,  lovely  night ! 
And  as  she  came,  a  wind,  o'er  lapping  tide, 

Joined  with  the  sinking  sun  and  lo !  the  Slope 
Of  Splendor  dazzled   forth,  a  symbol  bright 
To  uplift  downcast  souls;  and,  close  beside, 

Shone  clear  an  evening  star  —  a  star  of  Hope! 


D 


ABANDONED  CLAIMS 

REAR,  yawning  caves !     On  many  a  mountain  ride 
We  pass  abandoned  claims  where  eager  hope 
Has  dug  and  delved  and  mined  with  windlass,  rope 
And  mighty  dynamite  —  yea,  even  died 
As  day  by  day  the  luring  task  was  tried 

And  tunnels  run  far  in,  and  winze  and  stope 
All  timbered,  in  the  candles'  flare,  to  ope 
The  treasure-house  men  thought  they'd  find  inside. 

Goes  out  my  heart  to  them, —  these  men  unknown 
Who  worked  for  years  for  naught.     With  heaven- 
high  aims 

I,  too,  seek  gold, —  not  from  the  earth,  wide-sown 
With  veins  of  ore,  but  in  myself.     When  Fame's 

Assay  is  made  what  values  will  be  shown  — 

Dear  God!     Will  mine,  then,  be  abandoned  claims? 


SAILING  BY 

SAILING  by!     Sailing  by! 
Ships  that  go  down  to  the  sea. 
Low  in  the  water  and  laden  with  freight, 
Pilot  aboard  and   a  sturdy  mate; 
Sailing   by   under   leaden    sky 
Ships  that  go  down  to  the  sea. 

Sailing  by!     Sailing  by! 

Souls  that  go  down  to  the  sea. 
Heavy  with  sorrow  and  burdened  with  pain, 

Sighs   for  the  wind  and  a  teary  rain; 
Sailing  by  under  leaden  sky 
Ships  that  go  down  to  the  sea. 

Sailing  by !     Sailing  by ! 

Ships  that  go  down  to  the  sea. 
Into  the  sunset  all  flaming  with  gold, 

Soul-ships    a-sailing  with   hopes    untold; 
Sailing  by  under  sunset  sky 
Ships  that  go  down  to  the  sea. 

Sailing  by!     Sailing  by! 

Ships  that  go  down  to  the  sea. 
Dangers  are  over  and  tempests  are  past, 

Into  God's  harbor  —  O  safe  at  last ! 
Sailing  by  to  the  Home  on  High, 
Ships  that  go  down  to  the  sea. 


WHEN  ROBINS  COME 

ND  here  they  are!     The  robins  come  a-flying, 

The  redbreasts  that  we've  loved  this  many  a  year; 

The  welcome  sight  puts  end  to  longing,  sighing, 
For  lo!  the  winter's  past,  and  spring  is  here! 

And  O !     How  gay  the  red  on  robin  gleaming : 
A  flash  of  light  —  a  sudden  song  —  a  start 

Of  joy  to  feel  that  every  bird-note's  teeming 
With  love's  delight  that's  echoed  in  the  heart. 

And  yet  —  the  sign  is  sure !  —  we  hear  them  calling ; 

They  call  at  dusk  —  the   robins  call   for  rain: 
Their   plaint    brings   mem'ries    deep    while   twilight's 
falling, 

And   then  —  a  sudden   splash  on  window-pane. 

But  tears  and  rain  are  April  showers  fleeting; 

Smiles  come  as  smiles  the  sun  on  field  and  fen. 
The  robins  mate  —  how  fast  the  heart  is  beating, 

For  when  they  mate  my  lover  comes  again! 


65 


THE  ALASKAN'S  DREAM 
T T  THAT'S  that  you  want  —  An  interview? 

Luck  was  agin  me  frum  the  fust 
An'  Christmas  eve  m'  heart  nigh  bust 
Thinkin'  o'  home  without  no  tree, 
Ner  toys,  ner  food,  ner  —  well,  no  me! 
(Ye  see  the  kids  thought  lots  o'  dad; 
An'  wife  she'd  say  I  wa'n't  s'  bad.) 

I'd  dug  an'  dug  the  frozen  ground 
But  nary  a  nugget  had  I  found. 
Then  I  gin  up;  laid  down  to  die, 
Fer  scurvy  had  me,  hip  an'  thigh. 

Wasn't  I  hungry?     Yes,  you  bet! 
I  haint  begun  to  git  filled,  yet! 
An*  so  I  dreamed  o'  Christmas  stuff, 
O'  fillin'  fixin's,  an  plum  duff; 
But  wust  of  all  a  turkey  browned 
Wouldn't  stay  putt  —  flew  to  the  ground 
Without  no  wings  ner  feet  ner  head 
(Ye  c'n  imagine  what  I  sed !) : 
I  got  s'  bilin'  mad  at  last 
I  bit  'im  one  jes'  as  he  passed  — 

An'  I  woke  up  a-strikin'  out 
With  my  ol'  pick  —  Did  ye  say  shout  ? 
Ye  bet  I  did!     The  gold  was  there  — 
You've  interviewed  a  millionaire. 

Dreams  air  queer  things!     Now  ain't  that  true? 
66 


BELOW  THE  DEAD  LINE 

RAMSHACKLE  houses; 
Ramshackle  lives: 
Who-so  takes  toll  from  them 
At  sin  connives. 


67 


COUNTRY  ROADS 

ONG,  beaten  stretches  that  man's  needs  have  made, 
I     The  country  roads  zig-zag  past  vale,  up  hill. 
At  times  a  dusty  path;  sometimes  by  rill 

Where  rustic  bridge  is  dappled  with  elm-shade, 

And  moonlight  lances  glint  on  man  and  maid 
Whispering  their  love  that's  echoed  by  the  trill 
And  haunting  sweetness  of  the  whip-o'-will 

Pouring  from  bursting  heart  Love's  Serenade. 

Ah!     Memory's  mirror   shows   a  country  road 
Where  pass   and  repass  thoughts  of  long  ago: 

Of  hay-racks   piled;   of  whistling  lads;   of  long 
Processions  winding  to  the  dead's  abode; 

Of  summer  noons;  of  winter's  glist'ning  snow; 
Of  One  —  O!   softly  sounds   Love's   Old,   Sweet 
Song! 


68 


w 


THE  TEMPEST 

'ILD  waves  and  wilder  sky, 
And  wilder  yet  these  gaunt,  tall,  swaying  firs 
Tossing  their  storm-wrenched  branches  eerily 
As  might  some  weird,  uncanny  sorcerers 
Who  would  the  storm  defy. 


Wild  waves  and  wilder  sky, 
And  wilder  yet  the  tempest  in  my  heart 
That  torments,  tortures,  tears,  tumultuously, 
And  ever  will  while  we  two  walk  apart  — 

Would  I  might  love  defy! 


69 


A 


CHRISTMAS  ON  THE  SOUND 

BLUE,  blue  sky;   a   dash   of  mist, 
A  glimpse  of  Rainier,  top  sun-kissed. 
A  snow-capped  range;  a  sparkling  bay; 
A  growing  city,  glorious,  gay  — 

We  pity  those  who  in  their  folly 

Live  where  grows  not   the   Christmas   holly. 

And  Yuletide  lovers?     Bless  their  hearts! 
The  Christmas  Spirit  zest  imparts. 
This  maid's  soft  cheek  with  roses  bloom, 
For  Someone's  entering  the  room  — 

We  pity  maids  who  in  their  folly 
Hang  not  the  mistletoe  and  holly. 

"  Peace,  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men," 
Her  song  has  a  new  meaning  when 
She  stands   beneath  the  mistletoe  — 
Unconscious?     Well,   we  only   know 

We  envy  them  their  —  no,  not  folly! 
Kissing  'neath  mistletoe  and  holly! 


70 


HIS  LAST  CIGAR 

1HANKS!     Yes,  a  light.     You're  doing  the  right 
.  Thing,  sure.     Sleep  well?     Oh,   fair.     The  night 

Seemed   long  ...  at  times  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  .  'twas 
short. 

(Here  comes  the  preacher  to  exhort! 

Tell  him  to  go.     I  will  not  say 

That  I  repent  .  .  .  It's  not  my  way!) 

Say!     Can't  I  be  alone  a  bit? 
Against  the  rules?     Well,  what  of  it? 
You've  stretched  'em  once  or  twice  before; 
Be  a  good  fellow  .  .  .  just  once  more! 

God!     But  it's  good  to  be  alone: 
To  smoke  .  .  .  and  dream  .  .  .  as  I  lie  prone 
And  match  the  rings  I  make  displace 
The  one  before  .  .  .  each  frames  a  face! 
Her  face!     Frail,  frightened,  fair 
As  when  she  hung  on  me  to  tear 
Us  two  apart  —  to  intercede. 
But   man's  a   savage  .  .  .  takes   no   heed  .  .  . 
And  kills  what's  robbed  him  of  his  mate  .  .  . 

What's  that  you  say?     Five-forty-eight? 

When  the  clock  strikes  I  shall  be  far 

From  love  .  .  .  from  hate  .  .  .  my  last  cigar. 


71 


D 


THE  BASHFUL  COON 

AR'S   Miss  Ann  Elizy 
Settin*  neath  de  trees, 
She's   de  one   I's  wantin', — 
O  but  she's  a  tease! 
I's   a-gwin'  to   ask   her 
('F  I  kin  git  de  san') 
'F  she'll  on'y  le'  me  hoi* 
Her  li'l  black  han'. 


Sure,  I's  groin'  to  ask  her 

('F  I  kin  git  de  san'} 

'F  she'll  on'y  le'  me  hoi' 
Her  han',  han',  han'  fer  jes'  a  li'l  minute, 

Fer  a  lifetime,   too; 
She'll  not  fin'  annoder  man  so  true,  true,  true. 

O  Miss  Ann  Elizy ! 
Come  an'  walk  wid  me 
T'rough  de   fragran'  meado' 
To  de  trystin'  tree. 
Wy  is  I  all  trembly? 
(Aside)     (I  ain't  got  no  san' !) 

'Cas  ye  teched  m'  shoulder  wid 
Yer  li'l  black  han'! 

/'*  a-gwin'  to  ask  her 

('F  I  kin  git  de  san') 

'F  she'll  on'y  le'  me  hoi' 
Her  han',  han',  han'  fer  jes'  a  li'l  minute, 

Fer  a  lifetime,  too; 

She'll  not  fin'  annoder  man  so  true,  true,  true. 
72 


THE  BASHFUL  COON 

O  Miss  Ann  Elizy! 
How  yer  eyes  do  shine, 
Laik  de  fireflies  dancin' — 
Would  dat  you  were  mine! 
Yes,  I's  gwin'  to  say  it 
(I's  got  heaps  o'  san' !)  : 
'Til  death  parts,  O,  le'  me  hoi' 
Yer  li'l  black  han'! 

Now  I's  up  an'  ast  her 

(It  took  heaps  o'  san'!} 

An'  she's  grvin'  to  le'  me  hoi' 
Her  han',  han',  han'  fer  jes'  a  li'l  minute, 

Fer  a  lifetime,  too; 
Gol!    But  don't  you  wish  that  it  mas  you,  you,  you! 


73 


THE  FAR  WEST  AND  NEW  YORK 


B 


ENEATH  the  coppery  sky,  ablaze, 
I  pass  long  hours,  I  pass  long  days. 
The  airless  nights  crawl  slowly  by, 
And  thoughts,  homesick,  far  westward  fly. 


I  walk  the  hot,  relentless  paves 

(The  houses  crowd  like  moldering  graves), 

And  long,  despairingly,   to  see 

The  western  waves  toss  buoyantly. 


I  pass  closed  homes  of  millionaires  — 
Their  owners?     No  one  knows  nor  cares; 
While  children  wail,  not  far  away, 
For  ice  and  milk  by  night  and  day. 


I  see  sick  babies  wan  and  worn, 
And  East-side  mothers,  pale,  forlorn; 
How  swift  there  comes  a  memory  bright 
Of  western  children  —  heart's  delight. 


Infrequent  parks  beneath  the  moon 
With  weary  derelicts  are  strewn; 
And  straight  my  visioning  is  blessed  — 
The  moonlight  glints  on  Rainier's  breast. 


THE  FAR  WEST  AND  NEW  YORK 

I  watch  the  sweltering  crowds  go  by  — 
They  care  not  if  I  live  or  die. 
When  can  I  go  where  winds  blow  free 
Where  roses  bloom,  where  friends  there  be? 


75 


H 


IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  VATICAN 

The  Guide  Speaks 

ERE  is  the  seat  whereon  His  Holiness 
Loves  best  to  sit  —  here  by  this  ilex  tree. 


Ofttimes  I've  seen  the  care-lines  smooth  away 
Whilst  he  would  watch  the  yellow-banded  bees 
Sipping  the  honey  from  some  lily  rare; 
Or,  heavy  legged  with  the  dripping  sweet, 
Beat  throbbingly  their  wings  in  homeward  flight. 

I've  seen  the  shuttle  of  the  loom  we  call 
The  mind  repass  across  his  features  worn, 
And   carry  threads  of  care,  of  pain,   of  grief  — 
Seldom  of  peace.     And  unbeknown  to  him 
I've  even  seen  him  weep. 

What's  that  you  ask? 

Find  peace?     Does  he  find  peace?     The  good  God  knows. 
That  comes  when  one  leans  like  a  child  on  God  — 
That  comes  when  every  thought  and  act  is  prayer; 
So  he,  as  Vicar  of  the  World,  should  find 
It  as  the  bees  find  honey  in  each  flower. 

(Here!  Draw  you  back.     He  comes.     Bend!     Bless  your- 
self!) 

S-h-h !     Now  he's  gone.     And,  mark  ye,  as  I  live, 
He  came  to  get  that  book  you  saw  me  with ! 

76 


IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  VATICAN 

As  I  have  said:  His  Holiness  finds  much 
To  grieve,  within,  without,  the  Vatican; 
But  that  to  me  is  neither  here  nor  there, 
I  know  my  place,  nor  fret  of  God  or  man. 

About  that  book?     Yes,  here's  the  matter  full: 
One  day  it  fell,  long,  long  ago,  for  I 
Am  old,  yet  't  was  but  yesterday  it  seems, 
A  gentleman,  and  grave,  paced  where  you  pace, 
Questioned,  as  you,  and  spoke  of  Asolo, 
And  all  his  tones  breathed  love  for  Italy. 
Then  of  some  Pope  —  his  name  escaped  me  then  — 
He  said  the  book  he  held  he's  writ  himself. 
Its  name?     I  never  asked,  I  cannot  read. 

I  asked  what  he,  no  Catholic,  had  writ. 

I  know  not  how  he  spoke.     An  inward  flame 
Burst  into  speech  as  sunset  clouds  catch  fire 
From  that  swift  falling  ball;  and  as  he  read 
My  very  soul  grew  big  with  unborn  thoughts 
Although  the  words  he  read  were  naught  to  me  — 
I  doubt  me  an  they  are  to   anyone. 

But  here's  a  strange  thing  I've  pondered  long. 
He  left  his  book,  and  many  times  I've  seen 
His  Holiness  read  and  reread  the  script 
(As  did  good  Leo,  Heaven  rest  his  soul!) 
With  brooding  brow,  until  the  page  is  worn. 

Mayhap  he  reads  to  scorch  the  wicked  lie 
With  prayer  and  credo.     You,  with  your  largess 

77 


IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  VATICAN 

(God's  blessing  fall  on  your  munificence!) 
May  know  the  rights  of  it  —  folly  or  truth. 

(I  use  words  as  a  sage,  but  pick  them  up, 
As  yonder  parrot  shrieking  in  the  sun.) 

Whate'er  he  meant,  here's  what  the  man  read,  So  — 

"  Correct  the  portrait  by  the  living  face 
Man's  God,  by  God's  God  in  the  mind  of  man." 

You  see?     'Tis  trash  —  mere  jugglery  of  words. 
Yet  why  does  he,  His  Holiness,  I  ask, 
Reflect  on  these? 


Written    after    studying    "The    Ring    and    The    Book"    by 
Robert  Browning. 

78 


F 


FOR  A  GUEST  BOOK 

1AR  through  the  star-lit  night,  o'er  many  a  mile, 
Your  message  draws  me;  lures  me,  too,  your  smile, 
Until  within  your  home  you  give  me  place, 
Where,  warmed  and  welcomed  by  your  lovely  face 
I  sit  before  your  leaping  fire-light 
And  find  sweet  rest. 

May  we,  when  comes  the  night 
Of  our  transition  to  another  sphere, 
Feel  the  same  eager  haste  —  have  no  more  fear 
Than  I,  when  seeking  you.     We  then  shall  see 
That  Life  is  Love,  and  Love,  Eternity ! 


I 


UNDAUNTED 

SAID: 

I  would  near  the  brink; 
I  w«uld  watch  the  wave; 
I  will  stay  on  shore, 
But  the  sight  I  crave. 


I  said: 

I  would  be  afloat; 
I  would  sail  an  hour, 
Where  the  tide  runs  smooth, 
While  the  others  cower. 


I  said: 

I  will  venture  ont; 
I  am  strong  of  arm. 
Look!     The  ripples  curve, 
Yet  they  do  no  harm. 


I  said: 

Ye  are  fools  ashore 
With  your  clam'rous  cries. 
Look  at  these  ahead  — 
Yet, —  their  straining  eyes. 


80 


UNDAUNTED 

I  said: 

Why  should  they  shriek  out? 
Why  the  shouts  from  shore? 
This  is  Life! 

Is  this  Death 
In  the  whirlpool's  roar? 


81 


DESIRE 

OVE  comes !     It  may  come  soon  or  late, 
I  It  comes  —  a  thing  so  sweet 
Nor  hope,  ambition,  youth  nor  joy, 
Without  it  is  complete. 


L'Envoi 

Ah  Love !     All  other  gifts  men  crave  have  I ! 
Come  thou  to  me,  nor  pass  me  by ! 


82 


H 


GEMINI 

OPE  came,  a  fluttering,  new-born  thing, 
From  matrix  of  a  deep  and  dark  despair. 
Amazed,  I  dared  not  grasp  the  vision  fair, 
For  fear  'twould  disappear  in  upper  air, 

On  radiant  wing. 

Joy  followed,  twin  of  Hope  divine: 
So  closely  followed  that  they  seemed  but  one. 
No  matter  now  whatever  work  begun, 
Life's  Gemini  will  crown  the  victory  won, 

I'll  not  repine! 


A 


DREAMING  OF  YOU 

SEA-GULL  drifting  o'er  me, 

Beneath,  the  waves  —  deep  blue ; 
Yet  I  close  my  eyes,  O,  gladly, 
To  dream  of  you ! 


Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  of  you,  of  you; 
Thrilling  with  bliss  at  the  thought  of  your  kiss, 
Dreaming,  Sweetheart,  of  you. 

A  gorge  in  snow-capped  mountains, 

A  torrent  rushing  through; 
Yet  I  close  my  eyes,  O,  gladly, 

To  dream  of  you ! 

Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  of  you,  of  you ; 
Thrilling  with  bliss  at  the  thought  of  your  kiss, 
Dreaming,  Sweetheart,  of  you. 


BELLS  OF  HOPE 

THE  morning  dawns  in  splendor  bright,  the  bells  are 
rung. 
Away,  sad   visions   of  the  night,  the  day's   begun! 

Hear  that  loud  peal  that  comes  through  ambient  air? 
'Tis  like  to  Moslem's  drum,  that  calls  to  prayer. 

Hope !  for  the  day's  begun  —  why  should  you  fear  ? 
Have  courage !  rise  like  the  sun  —  success  is  near. 

The  bells  clash  louder  yet  and  thrill  the  heart: 
Come !  now  your  past  forget  —  fulfil  your  part. 

Have  hope!     Welcome  the  fray,  of  word   or  deed. 
Have  hope,  let  come  what  may  —  and  you'll  succeed! 


85 


B 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

ENEATH  the  vestal  light  of  Vera's  beam 
The  lily,  pallid  white,  breathes  on  the  air 
A  scented  sigh,  as,  slim  and  tall  and  fair 
She  waits,  translucent,  here  beside  the  stream 
Whose  rippling  waters  give  back  gleam  for  gleam 
Of  silver  light  that  star  and  lily  share: 
She  waits,  imprisoned,  almost  in  despair, 
When  hark !  her  lover's  call  comes,  sweet,  supreme, 
From  out  the  temple  of  the  azure  night. 

The  stoutest  prison  bars  would  be  more  frail 
Than  floating  cobwebs  to  withstand  the  strain 
Of  yearning  lily  and  her  ardent  swain, 
The  while  he  fills  the  air  with  pure  delight 
And  trills  his  nuptial  song  —  the  nightingale! 


86 


A  VIKING  OF  THE  PRAIRIES 

John  J.  Ingalls  * 

A  SPLENDID  Viking  in  the  days  of  old 
Chose  as  his  own  dominion  of  the  sea, 
Whose   blue-green  waves   dashed  calm,  tumultuously, 
And   calm   again,   as    Luna's   power   controlled. 
His  will  was  all  supreme;  his  words  cajoled, 
Inspired,  froze;  his  men  bowed  low  the  knee 
To  him,  the  Master  of  their  destiny  — 
And  ever  seemed  his  soul  aloof,  and  cold. 

A  viking  in  the  realm  of  words  sought  place, — 
Chose  as  his  own  the  rolling  prairie  state 

Whose  blue-green  miles  sweep  wide  as  does  the  sea. 
His  soul  aloof  cared  not  for  populace 

But  strove  alway  to  keep  the  Nation  great  — 
INGALLS,  Master  of  Opportunity. 


Ingalls'   ancestors  were  Vikings. 

87 


A 


OLD  HOME  WEEK 

RE  you  coming  for  Old  Home  Week, 

Back  to  your  native  state? 
From  the  dizzy  heat  of  the  cities'  street 

Come,  ere  it  be  too  late. 

Are  you  coming  for  Old  Home  Week? 

Your  mother's  trembling  prayer 
In  the  dim  fire-light  or  soft  star-light, 

Begs  God  to  guide  you  there. 

Are  you  coming  for  Old  Home  Week, 

To  be  a  child  once  more? 
To  list  to  the  rain  on  the  roof  again, 

And  eat  from  the  orchard's  store. 

Are  you  coming  for  Old  Home  Week  ? 

Home  to  the  farm  on  the  hill; 
Where  the  locusts  hum  and  the  partridge  drum, 

And  the  nights  are  cool  and  still. 

Are  you  coming  for  Old  Home  Week? 

To  look  from  the  old  back  door 
On  the  ripening  wheat  in  the  simmering  heat, 

As  you  oft  have  gazed  before. 

Are  you  coming  for  Old  Home  Week, 
To  drive  the  cows  through  the  lane  ? 

To  pitch  up  the  hay  in  the  wide  deep  bay 
In  an  old  red  barn  again? 
88 


OLD  HOME  WEEK 

Are  you  coming  for  Old  Home  Week, 

To  fish  in  the  deep,  dark  pool  ? 
Where  there  is  no  doubt  there  are  speckled  trout 

In  water  still  and  cool. 

Are  you  coming  for  Old  Home  Week? 

Though  the  old  folks  have  passed  away; 
You  can  lie  on  the  sod,  in  the  silence  of  God, 

And  remember  and  weep  and  pray. 

Are  you  coming  for  Old  Home  Week, 

Back  to  your  native  state? 
To  the  quiet  and  calm  of  the  old  home  farm, 

Come,  ere  it  be  too  late. 


89 


GOD'S  MYSTERY 

INTO  my  heart  there  came  a  harbinger  of  spring;  — 
A  something  vague,  and  undefined 

As  that  strange  change  which  comes  in  one  night's  dark, 
And  when  the  daylight  falls,  we  say,  "  The  spring  is  here. 
Frozen  and  cold  my  heart  pulsed  wearily, 
Like  mountain  torrent  'cased  in  icy  fold ; 
Which  held  its  joy  and  song  within  itself 
Nor  thought  'twould   e'er  again   find   utterance. 
But  lo !  A  warm,  encircling,  penetrating  light, 
Like  sun  of  spring  to  snow-enshrouded  fount, 
Came  close  and  closer  yet,  from  out  life's  void, 
And  wrought  God's  Mystery ! 
The  icy  band  which  seals  the  streamlet's  flow, 
Makes  music  as  it  slowly  melts  away; 
So  does  the  frost-cold  casing  'round  my  heart, 
Yield  to  the  warmth  of  love  most  gratefully. 
No  more  the  song  and  joy  will  be  dbnfined; 
No  more  will  be  the  pent  up  ecstasy! 
Like  rippling  flow  of  waters  long  repressed, 
My  heart  sings  joyously,  "Love,  Love  is  here!" 


90 


THE  NYMPH  OF  GOLDSTREAM 

(Goldstream  Canyon  is  near  Victoria,  B.  C.) 

DRAPED  with  a  veil  of  lichen  soft  and  gray, 
With  sword-ferns  guarding  from  each  vagrant  breeze, 
The  nymph  of  Goldstream  sings  all  night,  all  day, 
Abiding  shy  beneath  the  ancient  trees. 

Long  has  she  waited  for  her  lover  bold, 

The  while  the  Red  Man  came  and  wooed  and  sighed; 

Then  he,  undone,  made  way  for  one  of  old, 
Who  bore  the  arms  of  England  at  his  side. 

The   song  she   sang   for   them   she  sings   to-day, 
Though  gone  the  Red  Men,  gone  the  H.  B.  C.* 

List  as  she  ripples  on  her  ceaseless  way! 

What  does  she  whisper?     Love,  she  sings  of  thee! 


91 


CALIFORNIA  POPPIES 

WHEN  the  winter  rains  fell  gently  o'er  the  parched 
and  sun-dried  earth, 
There  was  lack  of  grass  up-growing,  and  of  flowers  there 

was  dearth; 
But  a  wonder,  consummated,  changed  each  mountain,  valley, 

slope, 

For  the  poppies  bloomed  in  splendor, —  bright- winged  mes- 
sengers of  hope. 

Favoring  winds  and  steadfast  compass  sped  the  hardy 
Argonaut, 

As  across  the  ocean's  foaming  came  a  ship  with  high  hopes 
fraught. 

And  the  Jasons,  looking  landward,  wearied,  anxious,  eager- 
eyed, 

Gazed,  bewildered,  yet  rejoicing,  at  the  gold  spread  far  and 
wide. 

Brilliant,  glorious,  rich,  soul-filling,  poppy  myriads  nodded, 
leaned, 

As  the  breezes  rustled  o'er  them,  velvet-cut  and  satin- 
sheened. 

Fold  on  fold,  each  flower  opening,  glinted  fair  —  O  won- 
drous sight! 

Swift  sun-springing,  gorgeous  blossoms  scattered  gold 
'twixt  night  and  night. 

To  the  sturdy  men  adventuring  to  the  West  by  land  or  main 
California's  yellow  poppies  presage  were  of  hidden  gain. 
Who  shall  say  if  gold-tipped  plant-stalks  point  not  deep, — 

divining  rod, — 

To  the  gold  that's  formed  in  silence  by  the  alchemy  of  God. 

92 


I 


THE  STREET  WALKER 

WAS  the  toast  of  many  who  boast, — 
Of  those  who  Ve  had  lights  o'   fancy ; 
My  room  hard  by,  is  quite  near  the  sky, 
My  name?  Oh,  call  me  Nancy. 
While  village  maids  tie  up  their  braids, 
Ere  dreaming,  perchance,  of  a  lover, 
I  set  my  cap  for  a  passing  chap, 
And  if  he's  "  wise,"  another. 

I  loved,  ah  yes !  how  well  you  guess, 

The  years  they  seem  full  many. 

The  rest,  you  know  —  and  I  had  to  go 

Where  I'd  earn  any  sort  of  a  penny. 

'T  was  the  easiest  way,  so  the  fools,  they  say; 

And  the  time,  at  first,  passed  quickly; 

For  my  eyes  were  bright,  and  my  tongue  was  light, 

When  the  wine  did  n't  queer  speech  thickly. 

But  hard  and  fast  —  it  could  not  last, 

For  the  pace  is  swift  and  killing; 

And  the  men  who  buy  have  a  roving  eye, 

And  there's  always  those  who  're  willing. 

Does  my  mother  know?     My  God,  oh,  no! 

She  thinks  I  work  for  my  betters: 

If  you'll  step  hard  by,  to  my  room,  sky-high, 

I'll  show  you  some  of  her  letters. 


THE  STREET  WALKER 

So  you  dare  not  come  and  your  lips  are  dumb, 

Though  your  eyes  are  full  of  pity. 

I'd  like  to  forget  that  I  am  "  to  let " — 

Street  walker  of  the  city. 

I'd  like  to  talk  of  a  country  walk 

Where  the  buttercups  are  blowing; 

And  just  pretend  that  there  was  an  end  — 

/  can  make  it  true?  —  I'm  going! 

I  was  the  toast  of  the  Broadway  host, 

I've  been  a  light  o'  fancy; 

My  room  hard  by  is  quite  near  the  sky; 

My  name?     It  is  not  Nancy. 

I'll  pack  my  grip  at  a  rattling  clip  — 

You've  talked  to  me  like  a  brother  — 

The  Great  White  Lights  may  gleam  o'  nights; 

But  I  '11  be  home  with  my  mother ! 


